Classic Poem

ODE XVII

1

When I would bring
One verse, to Sing
Thy Name; how Dull am I?
Should I reherse
Some toy in verse,
My giddie Fancie then would flye.
Wretch that I am! how glad
I am, of this poore trade,
This Sillye Rime!
Yet when I would endeavour
To Celebrate the giver
In a well weighd
Judicious Poesie; how lesse Sublime
My numbers move, then ever.

2

When I my Clod
Would kicke; oh God,
How am I fettered;
At either heele,
(Me think's) I feele
A plummet, heavier far, then Lead;
Or like the Falcon, knit
Unto the Perch, I flitt
And make a bayte;
I picke my Jesses, and assay
For Libertie in everie way,
But cannot hitt.
I toyle and flutter; faine would breake the grate,
Where I am mewed, of Clay.

3

I may Sometime
In halfe a Rime
Hop from the Turfe; but when
I would attempt
A ravishment,
T'enrich my drye, and drousie pen;
Check'd by my bonds, I fall,
And lime my Selfe in all
The muite, and Slime.
The more I would Aspire,
The more (Alas) I tire:
Enforc'd to call
My Clog to be my Stay; and pant a Time
Upon my Bed of mire.

4

Poore helples Man,
What number Can
Expresse thy weaknesse? had
All Quills bene bent
To this intent,
How were it more then yet a Shade?
There is a Dismall Screene
Of Earth, and Sin, betweene
Us and the bright
Objects, wee would discerne.
How farre are wee to learne
The yet unknowne
Beauties of Truth? and onlye hope a Light
For which our Bowells yerne?

5

Leave me awhile,
Officious Quill;
For I have a great Thought
Unformed yet;
Nor can I fitt
It to the better Formes I ought.
Let me a while retire,
Till, warmed with Sacred Fire,
My Active nerves
Secure a stronger flight,
To gather, (from that Light
Which I admire)
Some ray; (alas) till then the Sinner Sterves,
In a Sad winters night.